


to the victor go the spoils

by rottenhour



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulation, Political Marriage, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenhour/pseuds/rottenhour
Summary: Kray Foresight saves him from a Freeze Force ambush he would not have survived and offers a hand to wed for forging peace.Lio accepts.
Relationships: Kray Foresight/Lio Fotia
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	to the victor go the spoils

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Horribly unbeta'ed 
> 
> Please heed the tags.

1\. 

Mad Burnish dwindle into single digits, easy pickings. 

The obvious solution is to get stronger, to burn hotter, to hold and protect, and recuperate what little left they have. Survive for now, live later. Lio can hold his own in a fight when he is ultimately forced to. If he can see them coming, he can deflect the blows and strike back twice as hard.

Freeze Force manages to hit even harder than that, and they are on their last leg. Fighting is more difficult when he must serve as a shield rather than a sword.

So, when the governor himself saves them from a Freeze Force ambush they would not have survived, and offers a hand to wed for forging peace, Lio grudgingly accepts his proposal. In exchange, Foresight will grant amnesty, housing support, medical care, careers, and funding for the Burnish cause. There is no room for denials; to ensure the health and happiness of his fellow Burnish, he will shoulder the responsibility because that is what leaders do. 

He would do anything and everything for them.

2.

Kray Foresight likes to get too close since their engagement. 

It starts small, when in the public. Courteous, lingering touches on his arms; a finger brushing against the back of his neck, catching briefly on the ends of his hair; a firm, subtle nudge on his lower back. Lio stills, every time, but Kray says nothing, only offers him a beguiling, knowing smile. 

_Bear with it_ , Lio tells himself, steely.

After all, it’s not unnatural for soon-to-be-newlyweds to touch, and hold, and be affectionate. 

It’s better these types of touches, he thinks, instead of ones to seize or arrest him. 

He reminds himself of his comrades hiding in abandoned markets and among ruin—and the very person whose foundation endorses their continued suppression.

He reminds himself to behave. 

Especially when Kray looks down at him, with that dark something writhing just below the surface of his eyes, something that is nothing as simple as hate or love or even in-between.

3.

On good days, Lio can be amicable. He tries, at least, to be sensible and polite to every annoying government official or public figurehead Kray introduces him to. Lio had wanted nothing to do or to discuss with them on his own merits; however, he continues to play the act he is assigned, lines well versed and actions sharply scripted. 

He retains his outward resentment whenever Kray refers to him as fiancé. He performs little tricks for nosy socialites when asked, calling small wisps of flames to flutter around his fingertips until his audience clap and clamor in awe.

It’s a spectacle for many elite Promepolitans, a downright embarrassment for a Mad Burnish. 

He comes to find, simultaneously, how the public’s discriminatory opinion begins to wane, and how the constant charade of niceness and cordiality is taking a toll on his sanity.

The headlines were insufferable.

 _The leader of Mad Burnish has been tamed_ , they said. _S_ _uccessfully acclimated by the loving, supportive hand of Kray Foresight._

“Indulge me,” Kray had whispered once, when a sneaky journalist had managed to corner and coerce them into a snapshot for the Promepolis Premier. 

Lio remembers how powerless he felt in that moment as Kray had pulled him close by the hip, remembers how much he wanted to snap the hands at his waist. Kray’s words against his ear were a warning for only him to hear. “We are very much in love, aren’t we?”

Kray is all about appearances and his image, this much Lio has learned. 

He had kept quiet and took his stance. Pretty and poised. 

It would take so little an effort to incriminate himself, and even lesser for their engagement to be conceived a farce under the public eye’s scrutiny. 

So, when Kray gives him an expectant look and slips his fingers between his own during an unbearable diplomatic interview, Lio does not rile. 

Instead, he forces a smile, warmly, squeezes the larger palm in his hand, and waves to the camera. 

4.

Closer, and closer still.

Kray takes the next natural step and asks Lio to move in with him. 

He’s not in much a position to decline. 

The penthouse is of a high scale in luxury. It towers in the sky with a gorgeous view overlooking the city; everything is buffed and shined, cut, and polished. 

They have to share a bedroom, and there are enough new clothes in his wardrobe than he knows what to possibly do with. All his clothing is fresh, ironed and pressed. Pristine. Elegant. 

Gone are the leather and belts of his Mad Burnish attire; Kray detests them and made a point in telling him so. Since their betrothal, he had to change his appearance to something more tasteful in the governor’s eyes. His earrings are the final trinkets of familiarity, and he has gotten away with them so far. 

He finds a small box resting on his satin pillowcase. Inside is a gorgeous ring of silver diamond. 

Kray smiles and starts for the box, sliding the ring out of its container while simultaneously reaching Lio’s slender wrist. The reaction is subconscious, instantaneous—Lio snatches his hand away as if it had been touched by ice, freezing his nerves, and curls it into a fist. 

Kray tries again, immediately, taking two steps forward to crowd over him and forcibly straightens his ring finger, watches as the band slides over the knuckle, and Lio does his best to school his face into a neutral expression. Kray seems satisfied, tucks a stray lock behind Lio’s ear. “It looks beautiful on you.”

He says nothing.

And maybe Lio should be grateful that he has a stable roof over his head and high thread count sheets, but he isn’t. 

He does not appreciate the way Kray’s hand possessively curls over his shoulder as he shows him around the new accommodations. 

“There’s enough here to tend to your needs. I’m certain you will find it comfortable,” Kray enlightens, lightly sweeping a finger across Lio’s forehead, parting his bangs, which he supposes is meant to console him. “It will become easier, once we get to know each other better.”

“Wonderful,” Lio tersely responds, holding back an eye roll. He already knows more than enough about the governor than he’d ever hope he would.

“It is for your own good,” Kray manages, sounding rather like a stern parent. 

Before, it had been him and Mad Burnish, looking out for each other in the wastes, spending their days with their flames guiding them, sustaining them. Even if the constant guard they had up was wearying, it was still them outwitting their bounty with pride, freedom, and fighting for their own cultivation and future. 

Lio scowls at all of Kray’s garish posturing. 

It feels utterly dishonorable living here, and it must show on his face because Kray assures him that this is necessary, especially with the remaining hundreds of Burnish relying so heavily on the success of their alliance. 

“You’ll see,” Kray soothes, pressing his lips to Lio’s brow, “you’ll be happy here.”

5.

He misses seeing the Burnish every day. He misses the taste of delicious defiance while speeding through the desert, when he’s too fast for frightened law enforcement to catch. He misses his armor, an imposing manifestation of power, a symbol of pride—a refusal to be taken captive, freedom from bondage. Now, he’s just another useless public official, dressed in silk and business drab, sitting quietly while other people in the societal hierarchy make the big decisions for him.

No, Lio does not trust Kray to make those big decisions.

Lio makes excuses to sneak and pore over the books and documents in Kray’s study when he’s not around, trying to understand what the governor is hiding or attempting to construct for his little scrap of a republic, and sometimes even daring to affirm his understanding with Kray himself by appealing to his arrogant side.

He must play the game, play pretend. Lio dislikes lies—to and from others, however he bends his self-imposed rules for the people he’s protecting, to those counting on him to entertain all the avenues of peace. 

He’s antsy too; locked in a gilded cage filled with pretty things he could care less about. 

“I need something to do,” Lio complains to him in his study one evening. 

Kray momentarily looks up from the forms he’s signing, casts a frown and continues with his work, as if Lio is someone not worth paying attention to. The notion irks him.

“Are you listening to me?” He demands.

The scribbling of Kray’s pen stops, scratches the paper in black ink. “Of course. What would you like?”

“To be with the Burnish,” he says, indignantly. “To oversee their reconstruction and settlements. It’s been months and I don’t like how slow the process is moving.”

Kray sighs, caps his pen. “Well, there’s still opposition against the reform. Not everyone is comfortable with the idea of you rejoining the Burnish, lest you start another resistance. Most Promepolitians do not feel wholly safe with you being here. You will have to earn their trust.”

He says that so calmly, so professionally, it pisses Lio off. 

“How?” He snaps back immediately, frustrated. “Haven’t I done enough to prove my allegiance? How am I supposed to earn anything?”

He is their leader; he should not be sitting on his hands—he wants to take the initiative, dig his hands into the dirt and grime and build something, cultivate. 

Kray lifts an eyebrow. “This is the most enthusiastic I’ve seen you since you moved here. You _want_ to earn their trust?”

“Yes, if the alternative is lying around all day, every day, with nothing to do.” Lio absently crosses his arms and legs on the futon, one slim thigh over the other, and he squarely notices how Kray curiously tracks the movement. 

Lio can see Kray’s eyes on his face. He stands, rather composed, his arms behind his back and body relaxed. But when Lio looks closer, he realizes he subtly looks hungry, darkly interested. 

He simply strides across the room to take his place next to Lio’s side. From any other point of view, the action itself is unsuspecting but Lio is keen to the way he moves.

Taking his hand, Kray motions for him to stand. “Only time and patience will tell. But I will do what I can to sway the public in the right direction.” 

The band on his naked ring finger gleams under the honey hue light of the room, and Kray presses his lips to it. They’re warm, soft. 

When their eyes meet, Kray smiles, a faint underlining expression of a predator. Lio involuntarily trembles, stealing his glance and hand away, and is immediately ashamed of himself for giving in.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Kray promises, sweet and affectionate in a way that Lio doesn’t like at all.

6.

Just as he had always known, Kray Foresight is entirely unpleasant. From the moment Kray proposed, Lio had seen the way his calculating eyes had lingered on him, but he had not been as overt about it as he had of late. 

Spending ample time alone, the touches get longer, firmer, bolder; fingers pressing along the length of his collarbone, curling into the dip of his shoulder blade, Kray stepping up behind him, leaning over him to reach for something above him, drawing away with a residual touch on his backside. Wherever he enters a room, he can feel Kray’s stare on him, intrusive and unsettling. 

A familiar shudder of unease ripples down Lio’s spine almost every time but he suppresses it, straightening and squaring his shoulders. Never let them see you flinch—especially when you look like Lio does.

He is not shy at all about his body, from a purely physical perspective. It’s a body. An able, strong body. One to carry the flames in their elegance and fury. What he cannot stand though, is that in the lines of his fine muscles and figure, Kray sees an invitation.

It repulses him. 

7.

He can take it no more when the body heat of the governor presses against the slope of his back in the kitchen one night, dinner abandoned on the table, effectively trapping him against the counter. The size difference is evident; Kray is tall in this position, so much so that Lio is nearly seated in his lap. An anxious pulse resonates deep in his gut, the air in the room is buzzing and electric beneath his boiling blood, and Lio is hyper aware of every place their bodies come to contact. He attempts to stand properly, to break away from him, and Kray leans forward, dangerously close. 

The ministrations continue; an arm wraps around his front while a hand appears on his thigh, and he trembles as the cool metal of the makeshift limb seeps through his trousers. It’s large and could nearly wrap all the way around his leg. 

Lio sneers in warning, “This is inappropriate,” but that curious hand glides up to caress the jut of his hip.

It reaches higher and higher. 

He finally snaps. 

“Stop touching me.” He twists himself out of his hold, his hand flying out to dislodge Kray’s. Kray removes his hand but stays where he is. Though Lio is glaring right back, he can feel how his back is pressing against the island, see how unfazed Kray’s gaze remains at his rejection. He’s encased in his larger shadow. 

“You’re not very big, are you?” Humor dances in his tone, so irritating. 

He snarls, “What are you talking about?

A low chuckle, “I had heard the likes of Mad Burnish and their ilk were to be feared. You’re the strongest, they say. Intimidating, even. However,” his grin grows, “I find that’s not quite the case.”

And then the bastard has the nerve to just laugh, an ugly bark which illustrates to Lio exactly what Kray is implying. It made him sick. 

“You’re cute,” he says, charmed, “and small.”

There’s a moment where the tether of his flames almost withers; a tinny echo banks in his ears, ready to come roaring out, urging him to burn, burn, _burn_.

“Shut up.”

The first spark of rage burns in his palms before he can even register it. His heart begins to beat uncomfortably, and his fists convulse, wishing to melt Kray’s face right off the bone. He will not stand for this.

He wants revenge. So much so that he burns with it. So much that it’s sometimes the only thing keeping him going. The flames of that desire are hot and vicious and hungry, and they have made a home for themselves in the empty, hollow space between his ribs.

Lio doesn’t remember what it felt like before, the lack.

“The Burnish must be very weak,” Kray says, unaffected, “and desperate to place their faith on someone like you.”

“Do _not_ speak of my people like you remotely understand what we’ve been through—or what we’re capable of.

His hand aches, itches like an unchecked rash, and Lio shouldn’t, isn’t going to _kill_ , but he’s fuming, and without thought, his arm rears back quickly to strike. Kray catches it in a blink, before it connects to his cheek. He tries to tug his wrist out of Kray’s grasp but is surprised when he cannot and fights down the grimace splitting across his face in all his effort to wrangle loose.

“I thought you had more self-preservation,” Kray murmurs. The amusement is gone from his expression, a controlled anger beneath the smooth cadence of his voice. 

The crack of Kray’s careful mask is telling. 

Lio knows him well enough now to notice it shift, especially when a grain of irritation gets under his skin, and then it would happen: a click of the tongue, a sigh exhaled too forcefully—or often, a weird, prolonged silence where Kray’s eyes goes kind of red, and he just stares.

“You’re usually so intelligent but attacking me?” He tuts. Lio struggles, Kray’s hold does not lessen. He snatches Lio’s face between his other hand, thumb squeezing into his jawline, forcing their eyes to meet. “That would not be wise. If something were to happen to me, what do you think would happen to them? To you?”

Lio growls, absolutely stunned by this hidden strength but otherwise doesn’t speak, petulant. He knows. He painfully, woefully knows. 

Kray continues anyway. “What do you think would’ve happened if I hadn’t intervened when I did? I could have left you rotting in the wastes, with _your_ people dying off in droves from hunger and sickness.”

He falters, suddenly struck with an intense vision of skinny Burnish bodies huddled in dank caves with the barest scraps of food to pass around. 

But even so, “We would have found a way.”

“Maybe,” Foresight hums, “but you didn’t. And so, you will behave, unless you wish ill to befall them now.”

The grip eases slightly, and Kray resolves by brushing a hand atop Lio’s hair again, as if he is being patted; the gesture is more so patronizing than soothing. “You’re of better use to them now than you ever have.”

“Do you understand,” he says, his voice calm and measured, and on the side of mocking. 

That sets Lio back on edge, fury rushing and roiling through him like a heatwave. He does not take kindly to be ordered around, to be talked down to—but neither does Kray. He thinks about the people he’s saving by doing this, the lives that will not be lost simply because he’s allowing someone else to own him.

Before the twists of defiance can take a chance to dismantle everything, he utters darkly, “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you were respectful for once in your life?”

Kray jostles him, obviously looking for a response. Lio swallows; there is a heavy lump in his throat, and believing he’s dying a little inside, he croaks, “yes, Sir.”

Silence reigns for a second. He can barely breathe. 

Whatever Kray is looking for, he must find. With a low hum of approval, he sweeps out of the room confidently, leaving Lio alone without looking back.

8.

Time passes. 

Lio Fotia has always been a fighter, a survivor. Lio Fotia has always lived.

Lio has never been good at staying in one place for so long. 

He feels confined, stockaded like an animal. 

He sleeps longer than he used to. One day, it had occurred to him that sleeping more often than necessary is a typical symptom of depression, but he has little to confide in; the only person he can talk to is the source of his problems. There is no help for him.

So, he sleeps. 

Soon, the boredom settles in. Worse, comes the monotony. And more so, comes the horrifying _domesticity_. 

He wakes to the familiar smell of breakfast every morning. And every morning, Kray greets him solicitously, already dressed in his sharp suits and ready to go about his work schedule, and with a chaste kiss on the cheek goodbye. Lio never reciprocates. It's not too wet or too hard, and his hands stay in a respectable place; it’s the kind of kiss that screams of a married couple, of familiarity and comfort, rather than passion. There are worse ways to wake up, Lio thinks. 

Their evenings are just as quiet. After dinner, Kray usually becomes lazy, so they spend their time in each other’s company. Mostly, it’s Kray bragging about his political feats before Lio wants to turn in for the night, in the excuse to get away from him. The attention stings simply because he is so miserable in general, but Kray seemingly doesn't expect much from him when they aren’t showboating in public, and that settles just fine with Lio who isn’t one for conversation anyway. 

It feels strange, this pseudo-intimacy.

Some days, Kray is almost handsome, but that could be because Lio is slowly going mad in this apartment, and his brain is inventing things to make his stay just a microscopic amount better. 

He’s stuck here listlessly for days at a time. There isn't anyone or anywhere to go to after moving into Promepolis. Nothing piques his interest in the slightest; he’s not so easily moved by galas and fancy eateries—it wasn’t too long ago when he was ostracized, handcuffed, and spat on by city strangers in the streets. 

“You’re still not happy?” Kray asks him one Sunday afternoon after he had devolved into silent treatment, an unorthodox brand of rebellion but he’s sticking to it. He’s in their bedroom wrapped in a blanket cocoon, serving as a barrier and physical indication to not touch him. Kray does anyway: a palm presses on his shoulder for a moment and then the mattress dips in weight when Kray sits on the edge. 

“No,” Lio responds, matter-of-factly. Of course, he is not happy—he’ll never be with him. “You know I’m not.”

“Mmm. Would you like to talk about it?” 

“No, thanks.”

A chuckle, but there’s no humor in it, comes out forced and deliberate. “Don’t be like that.”

Kray crowds in his space, nonetheless, pulls him close, and the sudden action catches him off-guard and ruins the careful control over himself; he does not want to be touched! 

“I’ll be however I want to be,” he bites, affronted.

“I won’t tell anyone else if that’s what you are worried about. I want you to be able to trust me.” 

Lio wants to laugh—actually let out a nice, big guffaw. If Kray is ready to come clean about whatever dark hole all the Burnish who’d been snatched up by Freeze Force over the years had been tossed into, then perhaps Lio would spare an ounce. The words chafe at him—the saccharine, calm, _husbandly_ voice trying to find what is wrong and how to help soothe it away. Kray can’t, obviously, since he’s the cause of it. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he implores, tucking Lio further in until his chin rests atop his head. 

Heavy seconds of silence. Lio is stubborn, hard to break, and he soaks in the small satisfaction of making Kray work. 

A sigh alleviates it, “What’s the point of all this? I’m just trying to make the best out of a bad situation. I wish you would too.”

Finally, the straw snaps, gnarls into an ugly twist, and Lio spats, “That’s not fair. You don’t have the right to be inconvenienced when you created the situation in the first place.”

Eyebrows raise, “I don’t recall it was me terrorizing civilians with violent antics, wasting valuable tax dollars on reconstruction efforts. Take whatever tone you want with me, but I do a lot for you that I don’t have to, and you won’t even think about showing me the slightest gratitude in return.”

“Why should I?” Lio’s shoulders are wound up, high and tight, his voice deep and furious like a forest fire as he carefully pronounces each word. “What right do you have to ask me for anything more than what you’ve already taken?”

Kray seems to consider this, mulling over his thoughts, and with practiced regality, he speaks.

“You should...try to accept this. It’s reality now. You still have your health, a home, the Burnish are maintained. I give you everything you need. You’re here, with me. You need to embrace it, and embrace me, or you’re going to be miserable forever.”

Lio feels it then: his bottom lip quivers and there’s a wet and sharp sting at the corner of his eyes. He jerks his head away, lest Kray can see it. 

“You’re making me miserable.”

“No, you’re making yourself miserable.”

9.

The document in his hands wrinkle in his agitation as he stomps through the Foresight Foundation tower, beyond fed up with meetings and forums where his voice is drowned out, cast aside, unheard. 

“So annoying.” Lio grumbles. “Who do they think they are?

He’d never say it out loud or admit to anyone, but on some days, secretly, he feels so useless. 

His proposal is perfect; he’s spent weeks cutting corners and strategically planning, ruminating over concepts with a fine-toothed comb and weighing out the outcomes. Everything should have fallen into place as he meticulously predicted, but there’s always a caveat to these things. All he wants, all he needs, is a damn official signature, and no one in the department will sign off on it. Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy. He must come groveling, again, to the person he is shamefully obligated to. 

His goal is, and ever will be, to establish a community of Burnish for Burnish, and it would not be realized without eventually confronting Foresight. 

The corridors of the complex are long and winding. He walks down one and turns into another that looks almost identical—but Lio knows exactly where to go.

Biar is filing her nails in front of the Kray’s office when he arrives, and she clicks her tongue, prim and proper as she speaks, “Governor Foresight asks to not be disturbed and isn’t seeing anyone this hour.” 

“I don’t care.” Lio pushes ahead, paying her no mind, and storms into the office. Kray _will_ make time for him.

His footsteps click deliberately on the hard floor, signaling his presence, demanding attention. 

Kray gives him none. 

So, naturally, Lio takes it; ignoring the stacks of papers and Manila folders already piled on Kray's desk, he slaps his document on top of whatever drivel the governor is currently working on, challenging him without words. Taking his stand. 

“Well?” Kray prompts, looking up from his paperwork and expression unchanging. 

“You need to read and sign this,” Lio commands.

“I’m very busy right now.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Is this something you really need me for right now?” A rustle of paper as Kray flips over a page, and Lio doesn’t have the patience for this, for Foresight’s nonchalance and disregard.

Through gritted teeth, “Yes, why else would I ask for assistance if I didn’t need it? They won’t accept it unless you sign first.”

Kray hums at that, watching him with idle interest. “Is that so? I see. In any case, I simply don’t have the time to peruse over this today. Perhaps, you can schedule a meeting with Biar? She should manage to find an opening for you.”

Dismissive. Patronizing. 

Lio’s eyes roam to the mounds of proposals and reports from other department heads, left unread for weeks at a time and waiting to be sanctioned, where his own would undoubtedly be tossed aside. 

He bristles and snatches the document, “Forget it, I don’t need your help.”

Kray pauses before saying, “Don’t you?” Almost as if Lio’s words don't make a difference. “The Burnish, on the other hand, would say otherwise. Wouldn’t it be selfish to deprive them of anything, because you can’t bother to set aside your own ego?”

 _Selfish!?_ Lio growls, threatening and amplified by the fury in his gut. “The Burnish _are_ my utmost priority. Clearly, we don’t share the same sentiments.” 

“I would bid you luck, but you won’t find any of that here. I suppose I could make some leeway for you if you can convince me, yes? 

He recalls what Kray had said, about _earning_ privileges, and his stomach drops. It’s only the thought of the Burnish that makes him reconsider, to give an offering. 

A sacrifice.

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other, and then, Lio hesitantly asks, “So what do you want in return?”

“A kiss,” says Kray, smiling. “That’s all.”

That’s all.

“You want a kiss,” he repeats, flatly.

“Yes.” 

It takes a truly herculean effort not to scoff and leave at the absurdity of it all, and he regards himself as rather a paragon of self-control. He must endure.

He must endure for them or no one else will. 

It really isn’t any easier walking into a trap when you know you are walking into one—and yet, Lio is going to do precisely that. 

“Just one…?” he grumbles eventually, looking back at Kray’s face through narrowed eyes. “And then you’ll give the clear on the proposal?”

Kray nods, satisfied. “Just one, but it has to be a real kiss. Not just a quick peck.”

And the words have hardly left his mouth before suddenly Lio reaches forward to grab the lapels of Foresight’s suit, smashing their faces together and shutting his eyes tight as he does so before he can change his mind.

There is fire in his mouth, white-hot and crystallized. The sensation shoots down his spine; his lips part with embers coiling up from his throat, off his teeth and tongue without following his directive, threatening to take over and swallow them both in the conflagration. It startles him, that his flames acquiesce so easily, so ready to magnetize and synchronize together with a compatible conduit.

 _This reaction: this is weird_ , Lio muses. 

He exhales; Kray inhales, and Lio’s flames slither inside him, filling him until he’s incandescent, as if Kray is somehow seducing the fire out of him, coaxing them. Aside from the mint of toothpaste, he tastes smoke and vapor and spice. It’s not as revolting as he thought it would be, but the wounded pride lingers in the back of his mind from submitting to Kray’s demand, echoing over the cacophony of _burnburnwantburnwant._

Kray must feel this connection too, this fever, because his hand finds the back of Lio’s head, fingers brushing through his scalp gently before grabbing a fistful to angle his head the way he wants it, as if he can’t get enough, can’t get close enough. Lio gasps suddenly to take a breath and to break away from the heat, but Kray locks their lips together again, forcing his tongue in and dragging it along the roof of his mouth, running and slobbering over every taste bud.

 _Gross_.

In a burst of clarity, Lio deliberately places both palms on either side of Kray’s face to wrench them apart. A sparse lick of fire connects to both of their mouths like residue, and Kray drinks it up, a piece of Lio’s own flame now to nestle and smolder inside of him. 

“That was certainly interesting.” Kray fixes his suit and smiles again at him, the full force starting small and growing wide, fed by the feeling of power, of being in control. Of lust. “And here I thought you would wait until we were both naked.” 

Withholding the urge to spit, Lio wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimaces, and taps the empty dotted line adamantly with his finger.

“Just sign it already.”

So, he does.

Kray pens his name, right next to Lio’s signature. 

10.

The next time Lio needs something, he’s on his knees. 

Groveling, again. Only now, it’s literal.

It’s not a position he would ever usually sit in. Way too polite or demure.

Kray likes him this way, hidden underneath his desk. A gross secret. The prize this time is a sizable grant. Kray can deliver as promised and pull some strings...if Lio can provide, of course. 

A hand lands atop his hair, “Just relax into it.” Kray smiles indulgently down at him, the sound of the zipper rasps down, a million decibels in Lio’s ears. “It won’t be so bad,” he reassures. “You're going to make me feel so good.”

His insides boil with rage. He can’t bring himself to say anything. If he does, he knows for certain he’ll combust, light up like a supernova, and burn this entire building down in his anger. He looks up at Kray from beneath his eyelashes, attempts to channel his fury through his glare but Kray only strokes his hair back gently, brushing it back off his forehead. 

“Open wide,” he whispers gently, unnecessarily.

Lio makes it clear, with the way his jaw clenches tight, how much he wants Kray to fuck off; he won’t do it for this undeserving asshole, he won’t, he’ll _bite_ —

“Don’t look like that. Are you going to be difficult?” Kray asks.

Lio scowls more deeply.

Kray sighs, disappointed. “If you’re going to be that way, I can invest my time into something else instead. I have many pressing manners to attend to. Surely, whatever it is you need cannot be that important.” 

Lio’s hands fist and tremble at Kray’s thighs. He opens his mouth against his better judgement, waiting; the chuckle he gets is short and sharp, makes him go red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Kray opens his pants enough to pull his cock free. The underside of the head slaps on the wet flat of his tongue, and Lio adverts his gaze, cheeks burning brightly, and shudders reflexively. Disgusting.

He hates how Kray seems to know exactly what buttons to press, exactly how far he could push Lio to get the reactions he wants.

His tongue follows the tip, licking around steadily, dipping into the slit; it’s hot and heavy, hard and rigid but the skin is soft, with give on the outside. He swallows it in, or at least tries to; it’s big though, thick enough that his mouth readjusts itself to open wider, his jaw clicking in the effort. 

He’s familiar with sex, he had much more tolerable participants to share his quarters with while on the run; someone to share the flames and melt the bitter cold—the intimacy within had been soft, gentle, and filled with passion and the reciprocation of touch. An act of promised happiness, tender pleasure, and mutual delight.

This: so debased and edged with the sick anticipation that someone could walk in at any moment and hear the slick, conspicuous noises permeating in the room. Anyone could see the leader of Mad Burnish kneeling at Kray's feet like a dog, pathetically drooling all over his cock. 

Eyes snapped shut, he tries not to gag after Kray administers an impatient, hardy thrust with his hips, so sharp it makes his head spin and the heat swelter. 

Kray groans, long and low, with something like relief. Like he’s been wanting and waiting for this for a long time. Lio, sitting there on his knees, thinks privately that it’s an embarrassing noise; Kray must look desperate, it’s evident in the way his cock fills out and twitches needfully on his tongue, in the way his fingers curl in Lio’s hair, fisting at the roots. 

Spit drips from the corners of his mouth, throat convulsing under the strain, guided by the motions of Kray’s hand; he’s burning too, his ire skittering and festering underneath his skin, building as he hollows his cheeks and ducks his head further down, feeds the cock into his mouth, laps around the head. 

_Such a chore_ , he yells in his mind, repeatedly, trying to drown out the sloppy squelches ringing in his ears. He focuses on nothing else but that, the inconvenience and annoyance, and he screws his eyes tighter still. 

“Lio, look at me.”

The sound jostles him slightly, hearing his name spoken so softly from Kray’s lips. Lio dares to glance up; from this angle he looks mountainous, as sturdy as any of the pillars holding this building up, like a foundation of the world. All high and mighty and self-congratulatory, like he has Lio beat. Like he won. 

Lio needs to make it clear that this is not appreciated and that he is above this. So, he meets his gaze, holds it for a long second, and then makes a big show of rolling his eyes, derisively, to make sure Kray knows Lio thinks he is beneath him.

Kray only laughs, breathily. “You’re so cute.”

Irritating. He’s not trying to be cute. 

Suddenly, Kray slips himself out.

“ _Haah_ —” Lio gives a started, open-mouth exhale, saliva rolling down his chin. “W-what—?”

Trembling, he imagines how he must look; eyes partially lidded, posture slumped and defenseless, completely unguarded, and exposed. 

He’s _angry_. 

“I had no idea you knew how to do this, and so well in fact. And you kept this from me, all this time?”

Without preamble, he grinds back into his mouth, and Lio half-gasps in surprise when he does. Kray doesn’t wait for him to adjust before pulling back and thrusting right back in again, his cock thick and full, liquid salt dribbling on Lio’s tongue. 

“I should’ve made you do this a long time ago.” Each word is punctuated by rocking his hips back and forth. 

There’s no room for words in Lio’s brain anymore; all he has are the dual sensations of breathless immobilization and choking fullness. He tries, reflexively and then consciously, to relax his throat so he can breathe while Kray fucks rhythmically into his mouth. All that gets him is more involuntary gagging.

Lio squeezes his eyes shut in revulsion, breathes heavily around the intrusion. He makes a strangled noise of protest, spine arching outwards as he bends in reflex. Kray slowly pushes all the way in, causing tears to gather at the corner of his lashes and he wills them not to fall, before stopping there to grab the back of his head to keep him still and firm, nose meeting the patch of hair at his abdomen. Throat clenching wretchedly, Kray bucks into it even as Lio chokes; his nails start to claw into Kray’s thighs as his air runs low. 

Vision greying out, his nostrils flare as the fire raging inside wants to erupt out and protect its user, but after a full minute of struggling, Kray releases when he sees his eyes start to flutter, and Lio finally comes up, gasp loud, broken, ragged and wet. The burning oxygen feels like a blessing. 

Awed, Kray cups his face and thumbs away the tears. “Look at that, you gave in so easily.” He continues to catch his breath and Kray watches for a moment before collecting his hair in a hand again, tilting it back deliberately. With the other hand, Kray grabs himself and strokes roughly, eyes fixed on him. “Keep your mouth open, and don’t move.”

No, no, no.

It’s sudden and takes him by surprise. Kray releases in his mouth, splattering on his tongue. And Lio just freezes, the taste takes a few seconds to hit, bitter wetness gathering, and when it does, he nearly retches. He wants to turn and spit it out, desperately. 

“You’re alright,” Kray tells him solidly. “Just swallow it and I’ll let you out from under there. You can go and rinse out your mouth.”

Fingers nab his jaw back to center, squeezing into his cheeks, won’t let him move his head as to not allow the come to run out of his mouth with the assistance of gravity.

“Swallow, and it’ll be done.”

Trying to dislodge himself, he jerks into the hold as fresh tears threaten to leak out. 

Quieter, intense, “We’re going to stay here until you swallow it all.” 

A part of him wants to, just to get it over with, but another more ardent part doesn’t want to bend any further than he already has. Although, his stubbornness means that he’s still tasting what is lying warm and sticky across his tongue, and the thought makes him queasy, burning all the way to his gut.

“Come on, just swallow.” The tight grip on his jaw keeps him trapped. “Swallow.”

Eventually, his will wavers; with a garbled, wet groan of anguish, Lio swallows, lips quivering in the effort to force down his frown. 

“Good,” Kray murmurs, and Lio realizes he’s looking down at him again. “That was wonderful, thank you.”

Another smile and a kiss lands on the crown of his head where his hair is disheveled and Kray backs the desk chair to award him clearance to leave. “Here, as promised.”

Lio withholds a snap back in retort. If Kray thought that was wonderful, he would have to try harder to disappoint. 

Dizzily, he shuffles out from the confines of the desk, and Kray takes the opportunity to lean in before he can fully dispatch himself, pressing his lips to his ear. “Next time, I’ll make you beg for me to come down your throat.” 

Standing up straight, he turns with a huff to hide the shiver that wracks through him and abruptly departs.

The restroom adjacent to Kray’s office is empty, thankfully. The sink slowly fills with water: he lets it run cold and takes in his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are too wild, strands of hair standing on end, lips pink and cheeks blotchy with tear stains and drying drool. 

His fingers clench on the porcelain. 

He’s not humiliated! He’s angry! He’s _angry_! 

He isn’t anything else but angry. 

He isn’t.

  
11.

On his day off when he doesn’t have to stick to the governor’s side as a flashy side piece or attend another droning financial meeting, he’s disappearing on Detroit—whipping through traffic to the outskirts of the city where settlement tents are set in abundance. There are new apartment homes being built for all of them, and until the constructions are complete, Lio wants to ensure the temporary shelters are adequate for everyone. 

He misses this after so long with it, nearly flying until his ears are too full of the roaring winds for him to hear his own thoughts anymore. Doing what the flames are telling him to do, losing himself to the ecstasy of the ignition. The rev of the engine quickly draws attention as he nears his destination, and he’s soon greeted with excited eyes and welcoming smiles.

The children skip and laugh around him, attaching themselves to every one of his limbs until he can scarcely move, shuffling like a mummy, while the adults pat him fondly on back, waving, nodding. They look well nourished, eyes bright, flicker of magenta flames dancing and pinging off each other. There are embers guttering low and slow inside him, a background warmth than anything, a sleepy, contented sort of hum. He’s finally made it home.

He belongs here. 

His generals find him no longer than a few moments after the others. Gueira all but lunges across the threshold into him, nearly toppling them both over. “Boss!” Lio is quick to smile and relax into him. 

Meis smirks as he approaches them and comes in for a group hug. “It’s great to see you. Wow, you look so... _soft_.” 

_Neutered_ , Lio corrects in his head.

They’re warm, and they smell like smoke, gasoline, and bad life choices. Lio wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Hey, guys.” Lio says, fondly, and wriggles out of the embrace and even when he does, they stay close, less than a step away. 

It’s so easy to accept this closeness from them. They have always been there, one way or another, and being next to them is one of the things he also misses. 

The rest of the evening passes comfortably. They swap around stories, jokes, happenings, and hand out meals, and lounge by the large campfire, sparks billowing up into the purpling sky. It’s nice to know this hasn’t changed.

The children are put to bed, and everyone is beginning to make their way to their quarters for the night. Lio elects to keep watch, having slept too many hours from boredom than he can count, and Gueira and Meis readily take his side, without a thought.

When they’re alone, there’s a heavy pause and somber shift in the mood, then, “Listen, man, I know you don’t wanna hear it, but we’re worried about you. You hardly come around like you used to,” Gueira says tentatively. “How’s that Foresight bastard treating you?”

Lio freezes for a fraction of a second, remembering Kray's breath on his face, whispering control in his ear, warm and damp and disgusting. 

“Well enough,” Lio mutters, staring down at his shoes.

“Boss, you know you can come to us about anything.” Meis adds, concerned. And he hates it. He hates it, hates the looks and the sad eyes. 

“I know,” he spits out. “I know that,” he repeats, gentler this time, curling his hands into fists. He can feel Gueira’s and Meis’s worried gaze on him, flickering between him and each other.

“I…” Lio starts, searching for words. Because to say it makes it real, and it makes him weak. He’s lost so much already, can he bear to lose more of his pride too, even for a moment?

“I manage. Okay, it’s nothing I can’t bear with.”

“You’re not supposed to bear with it, Boss.” Gueira pounds a fist at the ground. “You deserve better than that!”

“It’s fine,” Lio lies. “Really.”

Meis doesn’t buy anything, “It’s not fair. Here we are, just reaping the rewards and benefits while you're forced to…” 

Lio rolls on his back and looks up to the sky, up to the silver glow from the wedge of the moon. 

“You deserve to be happy and safe and have someone around you who knows and cares about that.”

Lio sighs. But this is what he must do. His duty. His obligation. He couldn’t protect them as he should have, so he will tolerate this, if given the chance to keep the Burnish secure. They’re safe here. They will survive. And he will too. 

“We can’t help but feel like this is our fault.” Meis remarks hesitantly, quietly, looking him up and down. 

“No, it’s not your fault,” Lio assuages, but he’s too tense and tired already from this conversation, and he just wants it to be over. “We’re doing okay. We’ve kept the Burnish alive and fed and watered and safe. We still have our pride.”

Meis frowns but nods his head.

“All of this—all of this and everything and Kray...it’s exhausting to talk about right now.” Lio wishes they would leave it at that. 

“...That’s okay,” Gueira says after a moment of stillness. “If you change your mind, we’re always here for you. You know? No matter how long we’ve been separated, we’ll always be there.”

“We won’t let anyone put you out.” Meis declares in agreement.

They both give him a hug that he lingers in just a little longer than usual.

He’s weak for their affection, for their acts of tenderness and words of praise. He wants the warmth of a hug, the touch of a gentle hand, the acknowledgement that what he’s doing is right when it’s difficult for him to find that within himself. 

They promise hope and love and acceptance. They tell him they will protect him, guide him, help him. They promise so much that it is a towering mountain above him, unsteady and looming in its height.

The regret tastes sour and thick like bile. Lio swallows it down and looks up once more to the darkness above, bright embers catching in the wind. 

The crackling sounds of the blaze makes Lio feel a little freer, like there’s still the possibility that he could climb atop this and take off back to his true life.

12.

The Burnish are happy and whole and _healing_. And if that’s working then Lio has no right to tear down that frailty. 

If he wants to preserve their welfare...he has to be with Foresight. 

To give into real, captured _submission_. 

The next night, alone together behind four, suffocating bedroom walls that feel like they’re caving in, Kray asks, quietly, “So, what would you give me, Lio? What would you give to keep your friends safe?”

Stillness haunts the air, seems to wait on his response. Lio wants to believe this is just a bad dream turned worse, but this nightmare touches him when he’s wide awake. Kray is affectionate, leaning forward so their chests are nearly pressed together on their bed, and so, so gently, tilts Lio’s chin up with his thumb and forefinger. When he exhales, his breath touches Lio’s lips, the ghost of the kiss that has yet to happen.

And then, carefully, it does, the barest of contact. Again, and again, and again, soft little things, barely there. Lio doesn’t kiss back, looks away warily, tries to feign disinterest, but he can still feel Kray’s gaze drag down his body, expectant. 

“My loyalty,” he finally answers. 

Kray snorts, “I expected something _more_.” 

“What, is my loyalty not _good_ enough for you?” He spits with a deadly calm, seething down to his very core—a roiling, boiling mass of _pissed off_. 

“Your loyalty is…admirable. Full and genuine,” Kray says, the endearment dripping ominously. “But your loyalty isn’t the only thing I want.”

Irritation gnarls in the clench of his fists. “You asked what I was willing to give and I gave you an answer.”

A patient, indulgent smile spreads easy and eerie over Kray’s face. “It was the wrong answer.”

Fingers curl along his collarbone, caressing upward and inward, until they firmly tug Lio’s head back by the roots of his hair. Anchored by the fist at his nape, the kisses run hot and wet along the cord of his throat. 

As Kray works down Lio’s neck, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift away into the embrace, trying to let the gross warmth soak so deep into his brain that he can’t think of anything else.

That is, until he’s pushed down onto his back, legs straddling low on Kray’s hips. He scrambles up in a swell of panic and instinctively reaches for the flames embedded deep in his core. Two hands, one warm and the other cool, wrap tightly around his wrists before his palms spark a flare, wrenching and pinning them to either side of his head, boxing Lio underneath. Kray settles on his knees, dipping the mattress. 

“Don’t,” warns Kray, deep and rough. It sends a shiver down Lio’s spine. 

He yanks at his shackled wrists, fidgets in the sheets. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before; he’s been chained and arrested more than once in his lifetime. He’s been punished for things he’s unquestionably committed and degraded for things he could never control. 

But...he had desperately hoped, of all things, Kray would at least spare him from _this_. 

“No,” Lio manages, tries to kick, wanting to put as much distance between the two of them that he could. His continued struggling only prompts the grip onto him tighter until it aches. “Get away from me, Kray.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Kray tells him, leaning down and mouth pressing on the spot where his throat meets his jaw, where his pulse thrums beneath his skin. “We can make this enjoyable for both of us, if you cooperate.”

His nose wrinkles; he’s going to be sick.

 _“Lio_.” Foresight deadpans, the admonishment in his tone trickling in that unsettling way when he’s annoyed, and his tolerance is waning. 

Pushing back the nausea and gathering all the resentment building inside him into a struggle, Lio presses, “You can’t—w-we can’t _do_ this—”

He is silenced by a slick tongue sliding between his lips, slithers like a worm in wet dirt, swallowing his resistance whole. Lio takes the opportunity to glare up at him. There’s not a single feature out of place, unperturbed. Quicker than he can react, Kray snatches both wrists into one of his much larger hands and uses the other unattended to brush towards the hem of Lio’s shirt, lifting just enough to expose his stomach. 

The full-bodied shudder of revulsion that follows only makes Foresight raise an eyebrow, inquisitive.

“Hmm, that’s quite an interesting thing to say. Why can’t we?”

 _Because I hate you!_ Lio wants to _scream_. 

“Because I don’t want you!” 

Kray keeps him trapped with his full weight, challenging every buck with a calm, impenetrable stoniness. Lio is still mostly dressed, but he feels completely stripped naked in Kray’s continued exploration of his body. Fingers curve and dip into his waist, teasing and traveling down to his pants, unfastening the button. 

There’s an awful noise when Kray palms at Lio’s crotch.

Lio holds his breath for a second. 

The soft whine he hears is _his_.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t want this when you’re so hard already.” Kray whispers, hot and heavy against his head, chafing and presently sickening, sliding the fabric of Lio’s pants against his cock. He does this over and over, stroking the underside where it’s sensitive, tingling with unwelcome anticipation. “You look good like this, so eager.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” He tries to argue atop his recoil and cringe, his voice is shockingly small. 

Foresight ignores him, mouth curling, moving to peel off the gloves from his hands, to tug down his pants, and folding them neat and orderly to the side. The kiss of cool air on his cock as it’s revealed is another bit of sensation that comes to him slower than it should—struggling to break through the single-minded repugnance he’s fallen into. 

Kray works open his own pants, lightly thumbing at the head of his erection. “Are you scared?” He jeers, sweet-mean. “Is this your first time?”

“No, I’m not a _virgin_ ,” Lio grumbles, harder and sharper to get out than he thought it would be, gets stuck in his throat and catches on his tongue.

It shouldn’t be surprising—Lio had expected, after all, the inevitable—but, somehow, prone here in this unkempt, promiscuous position, is different from having foreseen it. If he’d had the presence of mind, he might’ve noted the girth or the thickness of Kray’s length. As it is, all he can comprehend is that this is actually happening; that the bastard is going to put that inside of him.

Kray invades Lio’s space, forces himself between Lio’s thighs. “You're going to let me fuck you,” he grabs at Lio’s chin, “I'll do that how I want. And you'll take it, won't you?”

The hands will not let him up and they will not let him leave.

“Give me an answer; I don’t care for people who waste my time.”

He does not have much choice in the matter.

Rage and sorrow and frustration coil through his veins, awakening something dark in the pit of his being. Letting his voice sink into a low growl dripping with venom, “Just get on with it.”

The horror crashes down all at once—everything passes in a blur. 

There is nowhere for him to go: unnerving skin on skin, kisses above his ribs and across his stomach, leaving trails that freeze his nerves in their wake, cold fingers dragging down, prodding, and working him open, holding him down. A frigid weight sits heavy in his chest, tinges with the sharp and sour undercurrent of pain. Lio grimaces, beading with refusal and sweat. 

“You’re so tight. I’m beginning to think you lied to me. ‘Not a virgin’.”

“I’m _not_ a virgin,” Lio protests, and it’s weak to his own ears. Licking his own kiss-bruised mouth, he adds, “This doesn’t count.”

This is a means to an end. This is all about control. 

Staring straight up at the canopy above their heads, he bites the inside of his cheek and wills himself not to make a sound. He can’t give Kray the satisfaction of pulling noises from him. 

Lio fails, at this juncture, to maintain his careful silence; his lungs collapse, causing his breath to leave in a great rush as fingers are replaced and he's slowly penetrated by Kray’s length. His grunt turns into a squeak when strong hips finally meet at the hilt, and his cheeks bloom red in mortification. 

Kray moans and curses under his breath. Lio doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to unhear the way it sounds, echoing around in his skull. 

It’s big, stretching him to the point of discomfort—Lio focuses on that, focuses on the dull sting instead of the fact that he’s being filled up with— 

_Do not think about it._

_Do **not** think about it. _

Perhaps, if he were just to lay here, unresponsive, Kray would grow bored, but an upward push snaps back his attention, breaching him without hesitation, without reprieve. There’s pressure everywhere on his body, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs, forcing him to take it. Possessive, all-consuming.

He feels afraid, he feels angry, he feels trapped. He feels out of control, leaving him shuddering, withering from the touch.

“Enjoying yourself?” Foresight chuckles, deep and rippling. He licks a stripe up his neck, and then bites Lio’s lower lip, teasing, pausing for a moment before rushing back in, just as hard as the first time and somehow even deeper. Again, and again and again till it speeds into proper thrusting, timed and precise, and Lio’s erection begins to throb and leak. 

All his muscles are alternately clenching and relaxing around the intrusion. It’s a strange, bright feeling, a sudden and isolated pain like a shooting star. He just registers it dispassionately, from behind his veil of paralyzed shame, as a thing that is happening and that hurts.

“If it hurts,” Kray says, but doesn’t relent, keeps a steady, unhurried pace, “then why are you grinding back like you’re hungry for it?”

Lio didn’t even realize he had said that out loud, didn’t notice that his hips are seeking out that friction, that his cock is half-hard. 

“Didn’t take you long to stop fighting me. You want more? Just ask.” The tip of Kray’s tongue traces the shell of his ear, teeth tugging on the lobe, unkind. Lio releases a helpless, involuntary noise, high up in his throat, like a whimper. 

Voice pitched at a rumble, stilting as the onslaught becomes harsher, uneven, Kray coos, “That’s right. Let me hear you.” 

Lio tries to get words together, any words. He gasps desperately to try to accumulate enough air to tell Foresight to fuck off, or at least to spit in his face, but all he can do is take in weird, shallow, heaving intakes of air, like stuttering sobs without the tears.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Kray asks, and without waiting for an answer, increasing the tempo, shifting Lio’s waist at the same time to better the leverage, to angle for a deeper penetration. Reminding him that he’s held here, defeated—as if he could ever forget.

An insidiously familiar burn quakes low in his gut, jars the base of his spine. Kray must know, toys with him just because he can, just to watch him squirm. It makes Lio furious.

It’s just a little more to go through.

Cruelly, Kray brings a hand down to stroke and squeeze Lio in earnest, wringing him out slowly and tantric. Lio seizes taut, clenches his teeth and chokes on a sound. Bald shock comes slamming against the fury firing Lio’s blood and begins to whittle away at it—which pisses Lio off _more_. It feels sick. Wrong. So good. He hates that it feels good. But it does.

Body betraying him, he rocks against the hand still pumping at his length in response, quite without his permission. It’s so much: all of Kray grinding up, up, _up_ , stretching him to the point where he feels like he might break. The additional stimulation is unforgiving, and the movement mixes with the heightened senses and aggression and adrenaline to build him up faster than he can control.

“Where’s that fire now?” Smug, so smug; Lio can’t stand it, despises giving Foresight what he wants. 

Kray is close—Lio can tell by the way his rutting starts to lose rhythm and the way his cock twitches inside of him, speaks to the discomposure of need, the untethering of his usual poise. Lio is perfectly full, then he is empty, then filled again. Grip tightening further in the sheets, he turns his head to distract from the disorienting and smothering body heat while his heartbeat hammers in his chest like he’s just set foot into battle, the clatter of swords in the air. 

He is panting, lightheaded and overwhelmed with the electric pressure expanding out through his hips and up his spine. He tries to hold out, to keep it clamped down, but there is no escape and no relief—after minutes, he is almost trembling with the tension from need, spots dancing behind his eyes and mind static, until finally, against his will, the heat boils over. 

His muscles lock up and jolts travel through his limbs as Kray pounds against that wonderful spot inside once, twice, and more, with just the perfect amount of pressure, shoving until they’ve become a hunched, animalistic heap. 

It hurts. It’s so good. It’s agony. He wants Kray off him, inside him, harder, harder, stop—

When he comes, it’s devastating. 

“Nnn—!” He absolutely _shatters_ , until his entire body shakes with it, alight and aflame. The peak appears before him between one blink and the next, sweeps up and rips violently out of him before he can even think of stalling it. His spine arches up off the mattress, shuddering through his orgasm, clenching tight around the cock stuffed in him. 

Kray puts every ounce of strength behind the snap of his hips, trying to ram in, _in_ —as if he’s searching for a place he hasn’t already taken and ruined—before spilling over, pulling out to jerk and splatter his come across Lio’s belly. Marking him.

It chars ugly like a brand, and Lio’s breath hitches in a manner dangerously close to a sniffle.

Kray leans down to rest their flushed foreheads together, drawing down in the aftermath. The mess is obscene: their combined release on Lio’s stomach starts to cool and dry, itches at his skin. 

And yet, as the haze disappears, Lio is not relaxed at all. 

He feels abhorrent. 

He covers his face with his hands, and he’s dimly aware of something being whispered to him, low and encouraging, but he can hardly listen to it over the deafening buzz of his own utter humiliation and disgust.

Again, it asks, “Lio, did I hurt you?”

“I hate you,” he croaks, hears his own voice, raw and rough and broken. Mirroring the inside of him. He doesn’t remember the impulse to talk. Doesn’t remember the thought.

Doesn’t feel connected to his body at all.

But underneath, he registers the hatred. Lio Fotia hates Kray Foresight on a transcendent level, the way other people love their soulmates and their children. He hates him more than he has ever hated anyone.

“You’re okay,” Foresight reassures, brushing away a lock of hair from his wet forehead and a slick of sweat from his cheek, so goddamn gentle, so terribly tender, like Lio is some sort of treasure he can’t help but cherish. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Lio had said no. But...he’d come. He’d enjoyed it in the end. It is one thing to be forced to endure this torture and another thing entirely to enjoy it. To make him want it—to make him complicit in this abomination— 

“—It’s not okay. Can’t you...don’t you understand what—”

“I made you feel good,” Kray continues, his voice soft and low, almost intimate. 

Almost like a lover, yet nothing like one.

His throat is tight with unshed and swallowed tears. His chest runs hot with the need to escape. His core feels...his core does not feel at all. “No... you didn’t.”

“I did; you came,” Kray announces simply, face falling into the ellipse where Lio’s neck and shoulder meet, just hovering there.

“I didn’t want to!” Kray had been responsible for that. Like he is responsible for everything unbearable that comes Lio’s way. 

“Maybe not at first.”

“Not at all!”

Frowning, Kray reclines and reaches between them, rubs the soft and oversensitive head of Lio’s wilted cock, and gestures to his come-stained hand, fingertips trailing through in little dancing curlicues. 

“Your body doesn’t lie.” 

He drones it, reverently, the final syllables grabbing at a different piece of Lio’s chest, splitting apart in every direction—strung out from awful, curdling shame.

**Author's Note:**

> I could've made Kray more awful, I think. This is my first rodeo with (somewhat) dark fic, so I hope this is sufficient wreckage! 
> 
> Critique and comments are much appreciated. 
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/rottenhour)


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